Here I was again, needing to cook dinner for the family. I had everything prepared–the ingredients, the cooking utensils, my tummy yelling of hunger (ooops!). The petrol tank was replaced earlier today; hence, I knew that I would be able to finish cooking in no time at all. Well, for those who don’t know, here in the Philippines, a cooking stove is fueled by a petrol receptacle, called LPG or Liquefied Petroleum Gas, that’s directly connected to it via a rubber tube and a control valve. Continue reading “A Writer Cooks With Paper”
She hastily fixes her bed and takes a deep breath, steadying her mind, if not her heart, as she goes downstairs to help make breakfast. “If there’s even some food left in the fridge,” she mumbles quietly.
These past months have been horrible. Her contract with her old company ended and there wasn’t any other job waiting for her. Being the breadwinner of the family was tough but it was even harder because she couldn’t find anything that could tide them over. What with all the bills to pay–the electric bill, the water bill, the rent–and the money to buy food, mainly.
She ambles over to the kitchen and finds her mom mixing something in a bowl. “Good morning, mama,” she whispers. She opens the fridge and finds several packets of food inside–a tray of eggs, a pack of biscuits, a carton of milk, some vegetables. That startles her. She looks questioningly at her mother. “Ma, why do we have food?”
Her mother smiles, gently. “Your brother sent a bit of cash to help,” she explains, “There’s some coffee and bread here. You need to eat. You’re getting a lot thinner, Trisha,” she adds as she hands Trisha a steaming mug of coffee.
She accepts the mug and starts eating some of the bread. She cannot hide the smile that slowly brightens up her face. “Thank you, God,” she silently prays.
“At least, we have some food,” her mom tells her. “Yes, thank God. We have food,” she seconds. The heavy feeling lifts up a bit and she feels lighter than she did earlier. Surely, this situation won’t be forever. She knows that God will soon provide her with a solution. She only needs to believe that. Because, He always does.
I’m molded by the people
Through my existence–
I’m the sum
Of the aches and joys
And scalded my life.
In my skin
Are the myriad cicatrices
Bestowed upon me
By hatred and by love;
Although, I’m also
The resolute essence
That enabled me to survive.
Thus, this is who I am.